


La Douleur Exquise

by SydneyCarton



Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: Angst, Crime, Dakota Fanning - Freeform, Daniel Bruhl - Freeform, F/M, Heavy Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I haven't read the book series (YET), I will probably add more tags as this goes along, Love, Luke Evans - Freeform, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, New York, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Rating May Change, This might get dark but it might not??, Unrequited Love, huzzah, pretentious imagery, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-13 21:40:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13579452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyCarton/pseuds/SydneyCarton
Summary: When he first looks into the guarded, vastly dark eyes of Laszlo Kreizler, he cannot bring himself to say a thing. He can feel the cold water around his ankles, rushing forward and dragging back like he is standing back on the beach.He can see the boat.***John Moore knows Dr. Laszlo Kreizler will never love him back—so why does he keep torturing himself?





	1. Introduction

Sara Howard has always, one way or another, commanded the attention of those around her. Despite the discrimination she is forced to wade through on account of her sex she still has that unimaginably strong inner power. She is perhaps one of the most ambitious people John Moore has ever had the pleasure of meeting.

They knew each other, John Moore and Sara Howard, when they were children. They were not particularly close, not the best of friends, but they knew each other. John often found himself feeling meager in comparison to her independence and complete assuredness in her own abilities. She was smaller and younger than him and yet it seemed like she was twice as good at anything he did, all because she believed it. And he believed it too. 

Because of this John was always anxious when in her presence, often openly skeptical of the things she said out of spite. Sara grew increasingly annoyed whenever John voiced his doubts on whether or not she could do this or that. This vicious cycle perpetuated a rather competitive relationship between the two children. However, his resent eventually gave way to bouts of something else. John envied her confidence, as it was something he himself lacked. He was jealous, yes, but he also came to respect her a great deal. Although he would never admit it to anyone, he came to regard her in a secret kind of awe. As time passed, he became increasingly aware that there were separate periods of both resentment and great fondness, and they had a cyclic quality. 

Kingston Point Beach was a small, scruffy patch of sand littered with rocks. Not many people went to Kingston Point Beach, many calling it an eyesore. That was probably why the old stranded pilchard boat had never been removed. The boat, what was left of it, jutted from the course, rock-cluttered sand. His grandmother had taken him and his younger brother to Kingston Point Beach often when he was a child, and he had always insisted that they spread their old tartan blanket where he could keep an eye on that boat, which looked to him like the ribs and spine of an ancient monster. He liked to sit cross-legged on the blanket and watch the murky water come up until it covered the boat. Then, hours later, after all the cucumber sandwiches and ginger snaps had been eaten, just before his grandmother said it was time to pack up and go home, the tops of the boat’s rotted ribs would begin to show again—just a quick peek and flash between the incoming waves at first, then more and more. By the time their old tartan blanket was folded again and the three of them were ready to go, the boat had almost wholly reappeared, its blackened, slime-smoothed sides covered in scuds of thick brown foam. It was the tide, his grandmother had tried to explain, but he had always known it was the boat. The tide came and went; the boat stayed. Sometimes you could not see it, but it was always there, hiding somewhere beneath the surface.

Before Sara turned twelve and her father went on the hunting trip that would change everything, his great fondness for her was not tidal. It did not come and go—it only  _ appeared _ to. The love he had for her was like the pilchard boat, sometimes covered and sometimes visible, but always there. When the mere thought of Sara did not send his mind reeling and he could get to sleep without thinking about her wavy blonde hair, her deep blue eyes, and her golden lashes, he gleefully reverted back to resenting her for how much better she was than him.

But he was not fooled.

It was still there, waiting for the slightest slip of his guard to regain its hold on him. His love was the boat. 

Of course, after everything that eventually transpired—the tragic death of Sara’s father and her consequent sentencing to the psychiatric hospital ending both of their childhoods forever—the whole cycle came to a stop. The boat was gone and so was the tide, because the tide could not exist without the boat.

Over the years the boat never appeared again.

Not once.

It did not appear for the girlfriends he kept, and as he grew even older it did not appear for the whores he paid.

He went years without feeling the same utter helplessness that came with the tide and that boat, and for that he was eternally grateful. Eventually the memory buried itself under the stress and tribulations of work and money.

This was why, when he first looks into the guarded, vastly dark eyes of Laszlo Kreizler, he cannot bring himself to say a thing. He can feel the cold water around his ankles, rushing forward and dragging back like he is standing back on the beach.

He can see the boat. 


	2. Love

The crystal tumbler rests in the palm of his hand, heavy and cold like a pearl embedded snugly in the breast of a clam. The liquid—amber like a cat’s eye—fills the tumbler halfway up, which is halfway more than John would like. He lifts the whiskey up to his lips, taking an indulgent sip and easing back into the comfort of his armchair when the heat of the alcohol warms his body, leaving his fingertips tingling.

He drinks and he drinks until the glass is empty.

He fills his glass and drinks some more.

Contrary to popular belief and speculation, he does not love to drink. He does not particularly enjoy the taste, nor the headaches that brew in the late afternoon and attack his nerve endings in the early hours of the morning, leaving any sort of chance at comfort well out of reach.

What he does love is the blissful haze that drinking lulls him into. After a few glasses, the cruel memories that plague his consciousness while sober leave him like a broken fever. His heart no longer stings with the unwarranted guilt of his brother’s death. His lungs no longer feel pressed with the humiliation and loss of his failed engagement. Through the bottle he is granted temporary solace. 

However, out of all the memories and the shame and the regret, out of all the pain there is one thing he wishes to forget the most. 

Laszlo Kreizler haunts his every thought. 

The tide is unpredictable and merciless. The water covers the stranded skeleton of the pilchard boat and John is able to acknowledge and work alongside the Alienist amicably with nothing more than a hint of exasperation at the doctor’s usual lack of tact. Not a second later the waves snap backward as fast as a racehorse and John cannot stop staring into Laszlo’s endless dark eyes and his thin lips. He cannot stop thinking about touching him—pressing a hand to his face or running a hand through his short, dark hair until it is no longer combed neatly to the side.  He cannot stop thinking about Laszlo’s voice and how his accent grows stronger and faster with his frustration, and how it lilts with his curiosity. He cannot stop thinking about how Laszlo bounces on his heels when uncomfortable, and wonders if anyone else besides him has noticed. When the tide is out, John’s body is like a helpless harp and Laszlo’s words and mannerisms are like fingers running carelessly upon the strings.

Unlike the tide, the whiskey is dependable.

A good, cold tumbler of whiskey is like the moon. After enough its polarity pulls the ocean up the beach until the boat is invisible. Buried.

He would put up with a million hangovers in return for these rare moments of relief. 


	3. Light

John Moore watches the specks of dust float placidly in the air before him, illuminated by the stage’s radiating light. He leans back in his chair—at least the velvet cushions are comfortable—and tries to tune out the harrowingly shrill voice of the opera singer standing center stage.

He has always appreciated the arts, illustration being one of his passions, but opera is a medium he has never been able to fully enjoy. 

The opera singer belts out an admittedly impressive note, which shakes John out of his brooding for a moment. He lifts his head from where it previously rested against the palm of his hand and peers down over the railing, making the most out of his sudden interest. 

Anything to make the night go quicker. 

The note goes on for some time, reverberating throughout the lavishly decorated opera house until John’s temples begin to ache. Eventually the man takes a dramatic gasp, drawing in so much air John thinks he sees the cloud of dust suctioned towards the stage.

Trust Dr. Kreizler to drag him to an opera concert with no warning whatsoever despite being acutely aware of how much he despises them. The Alienist has always thrived on being the one who holds all the cards. John, painfully aware of how weak his willpower is, has humored the man on far too many occasions.

John allows himself a quick glance to the side. Laszlo stares down at the stage, his brow furrowed in concentration and his thin lips pressed together in a hard line. His regal features are shadowed by the backlight blazing from the stage, his profile caught in a captivating silhouette. Something strong and cruel (something he has been carrying with him for a very long time) wraps around John’s heart and squeezes. 

His lips part on their own accord. 

He swallows thickly and forces his gaze back towards the colorfully-dressed jackass on stage, reaching for his flask. 

They had sat across from one another during the trip there. The carriage was too large for their knees to brush even once, and John had found himself both disappointed and relieved at the lack of contact.

The distance between them helped keep the tide in place. It was already in, quite a ways up the beach, on account of the doctor’s decision to play ‘puppeteer’ again. The boat was always safely concealed during these times, as John's frustration often kept him preoccupied. 

On the extremely rare occasion John was ever able to face his infatuation head-on, he chastised himself for ever falling in love with a man who was so emotionally distant that he played chess with the lives of those around him rather than simply  _ sharing his plans _ and  _ asking for help _ . 

Laszlo had asked about Sara—why she wore a man’s signet ring. The doctor’s dark eyes pierced his and he took a swig from his flask, hoping it was strong enough to keep the tide up.

“Why do you take such pleasure in keeping everyone in the dark about your plans?” John screwed the flask shut with practiced fingers. He had asked this question before, the soft fingertips of déjà vu ghosted over his lips and down his spine. Laszlo kept quiet like always, instead waiting patiently for answers he knew would come willingly with enough time. John narrowed his eyes and glared at the man who sat innocently across from him.

The light from the streetlamps outside streamed in through the window, illuminating Laszlo’s face delicately. The white scarf wrapped around his neck caught the light and glowed. John’s eyes were instantly drawn to the porcelain curve of his neck—

The carriage quickened over the cobblestone street and the doctor was jostled, his head tilting momentarily to the side. 

Damn him, damn him to hell.

“The ring was her father’s,” John gave in, letting out a defeated sigh. He could never keep a secret from Laszlo, despite how easy it was for the doctor to keep things hidden from him.

Once John finished he took another swig from his flask and tried to ignore the guilt that turned his stomach for uncovering Sara’s very personal past. He didn’t even put up a decent fight.

He was weak.

_ Weak _ . 

The corner of Laszlo’s mouth had lifted upward and the guilt was banished. It was not quite a smile, but by god was it worth it.


End file.
